


Strike the Spark, Light the Fire

by skeleton_twins, thekeyholder



Series: Captain [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jim, Christmas, Dating, Emotional Porn, Glove Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Post-Season/Series 03, Texting, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-11 11:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder/pseuds/thekeyholder
Summary: After the Tetch virus, things aren't exactly ideal between Oswald and Jim. The detective fears that he has completely ruined their relationship, until he discovers that Oswald took and held on to his pair of leather gloves. After a hot encounter in City Hall, the two begin to send each other lewd texts, but somewhere along the way their relationship turns into something more profound.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! We're back with a new collab that was written for the [Gobblepot Winter 2017](http://gobblepotgazette.tumblr.com/post/167450979469/gobblepot-winter-2017) event! There's still lots of time, so you should join it too! We used the prompt 'gloves' for this first chapter.
> 
> Thank you Nekomata58919 and druxykexy for the beta! :)
> 
> Title taken from a [Rumi quote](http://www.azquotes.com/quote/877715?ref=sparks). Hope you enjoy!

Oswald Cobblepot stops in the entrance of City Hall, looking down at the people walking in the streets with a tired, but benevolent smile, like a god observing his oblivious subjects. He huffs, his breath forming a small, white puff before it disappears. Early winter has certainly settled in, so Oswald puts on a pair of black leather gloves, then leans heavily on his cane as he descends the stairs, another day of hard work behind him.

 

After the previous mayor fled the city during the Tetch virus outbreak, officials approached Oswald, begging him to return to his office and save the city from crumbling on itself. Oswald had decided to accept from the first moment, but he let the councillors beg, reveling in their desperation. At least someone needed him…

 

Gabe is already waiting for Oswald with the black limousine, opening the door for Gotham’s new mayor. The press was rather shocked and unkind towards Oswald after the news broke, but he made sure to shut them up when his firm leadership brought the city back from the brink of total chaos. Stats clearly showed that things have been improving, so the media started portraying him again in a positive light, calling him the saviour of Gotham.

 

Of course, there are still people opposing him and his restoration as mayor. According to certain rumors, some of the mob families are questioning whether he can juggle both positions again. Naturally, there are also some old families of the city who are grumbling against Oswald, but no one has dared to oppose him openly.

 

There’s also Jim Gordon…

 

It always comes back to Jim, Oswald thinks as his eyes wander from the city passing outside to his lap and on the black leather gloves. _Jim’s_ gloves. He cannot help a smirk forming on his lips as he remembers the strange way he took possession of them.

 

After Jim wanted to exchange him for Tetch in order to get the antidote ‒ while under the influence of the damn virus, Oswald reminds himself ‒ Oswald managed to get away, thanks to his wit and cunningness. Perhaps the best thing about it was that he got away with Jim and Bullock’s police car, waving goodbye just as the detectives were trying to catch up with him, gaping at his insolence.

 

When Oswald was done with the whole Nygma business, he checked the car for any possible evidence against himself and that was when he came across Jim’s leather gloves, stashed in the glove compartment. To this day he’s not sure why, but the first thought that came to his mind in that moment was the feel of Jim’s gloved hand on his wrist, the smoothness of the leather in contrast with the tightness of the grip.

 

Even now, a shiver runs down Oswald’s spine as he remembers the hotness that spread through his body, the flash of an image so sinful that he quickly stuffed the gloves in his pocket and willed his blush to subside before he faced Ivy and the rest of the freaks. When Oswald got home, he threw the gloves hastily in the drawer of his nightstand, as if the material was burning his fingers. He pretended to forget about their existence, but every time he stepped into his bedroom, his eyes fell on the drawer and he would swallow thickly, then look away.

 

Until one night when he couldn’t fight the images anymore and he gave in.

 

There was only a moment of hesitation. Oswald just needed a mere glimpse of the gloves, just one peek and he swore it would be enough. That he'd forget about the gloves, forget about the original owner of them and close the drawer and lock away the key. It was useless, the second he pulled open the drawer and saw the gloves lying there on top the purple velvet lining, he was a goner.

  


The urge to touch was simply too overwhelming to ignore. His fingers twitched, itching to pick up the pair of gloves and slid them on, slipping his fingers into the warmth. Any control was tossed straight out the window when the leather hit his skin. His mind flooding with memories of the detective's tight grip around his biceps. The smooth glide of Jim's hands around his neck, the burn of the leather as his cupped hand had moved upward, holding his head as he’d shoved the gangster into the patrol car. Oswald swears he felt the detective tighten his hold, fingers latching onto the short hair lining above the nape of his neck.

 

A noise escaped his mouth as he tugged the gloves on. He hurried, unable to wait, the desire to feel the leather on his bare skin overpowered him. He shed his clothes, quickly unbuttoning his vest, pushing it off his shoulders.

 

He caught himself across the room in the vanity mirror. For a moment Oswald couldn't recognize himself. His pupils were blown, lust swallowing any color left of his irises. A soft pink dusting over his face, flushed, and already breathless.  

 

His eyes followed the trail his gloved hands made, slowly down his torso. Suddenly, the hands on him weren't his own; instead, Oswald pictured the hands of the detective. His breath hitched as his fingers reached his belt.

 

Oswald imagined that Jim would toy with him, making him wait for it, teasing him with small touches until he'd be left begging and writhing underneath him.

 

He took it slow, telling himself to be patient. He didn't yank with much force, instead, he gently undid the belt. Like a snake wrapped around his waist, it slithered out under the loops of his trousers.

 

Dropping the belt onto the floor with a soft thump, Oswald’s breath hitched as he unbuttoned his pants, shoving his hand down his trousers. The zipper caught on the leather, but Oswald paid no attention, not once his thumb started tracing the outline of his clothed cock.

 

Soon, the tip of his member was leaking steadily, soaking his boxers right through. The leather gloves felt heavenly, sliding easily against the silk material. He palmed at himself, adding more pressure against his cock. He ran his free hand up his chest, gasping when the detective's gloves made contact with his neck. His fingertips skimmed over his throat, feeling the muscles contract as he glided upward.

 

His gloved fingers traced along his lips before pushing in. Oswald moaned around his fingers, watching his reflection, digits disappearing into the heat of his mouth. The tangy taste of leather hit his tongue as he licked, making the gloves slick with his saliva.

 

He looked completely debauched. Hair and clothes disheveled. There was a hunger in his gaze, desperation burning in his eyes. Oswald becoming undone, slowly unraveling as his desires built up. Patience has never been a virtue of his, he couldn't wait any longer.

 

Oswald released his fingers with a noisy smack of his lips. He yanked at his pants, tugging down his trousers and boxers in one go. He gripped the base of his cock, watching it twitch. The glove was coated with his saliva, but there was still a burn as he started moving, stroking up and down his length.

 

Closing his eyes, Oswald called forth the memory of Jim gripping his wrist, power and sizzling electricity underlying his touch, making Oswald moan as he tightened his hold around his cock, just as he imagined Jim would. He could even hear the detective’s low voice, etched with scorn and anger, and Oswald gripped the sheets between his fingers, trying to anchor himself, so he wouldn’t finish too soon.

 

In Oswald’s mind, Jim was kneeling before him, a position not to show his submission, but the fact that he had Oswald, he owned him in any and every way. He was jerking Oswald while looking at him with burning eyes, goading him with dark words to which Oswald could only reply with moans. There was no place for gentleness or mercy, not in this scenario.

 

It was evident that Oswald would not last for a long time ‒ the moment precome started to dribble down his length, he couldn’t hold back anymore and started fucking into his fist, the squeak of the leather glove so loud in the quiet night that he feared someone would hear it. Oswald’s heart was thumping faster, and knowing his penchant for screaming, he placed his left hand over his mouth, muffling his whimpers.

 

Oswald tugged his cock mercilessly, his hand practically cramping with how tight his hold was. What pushed him over the brink was imagining Jim opening his mouth and licking the tip of his cock with a devilish smile. Oswald came instantly, head thrown back against his pillow as come painted his stomach and gloves, left hand clamped over his mouth. He stared at the ceiling with wide eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly.

 

_Jim would kill me if he knew what I’ve done with his gloves._

 

That was his first thought right after the act, and even now as Oswald leans against the seat of the limousine with a smirk. He just has to make sure that the detective will never find out.

 

* * *

 

 

Jim Gordon has been keeping low ever since the Tetch virus ravaged the city and himself, keeping busy with work, so he could isolate himself from everyone. He still can’t believe that he managed to wreck so many things and lives during a single day. At least his on-and-off relationship with Lee finally ended, for which he was endlessly grateful. However, the way he behaved, the things he said… they were just unacceptable.

 

Perhaps he regrets ruining his relationship with Oswald the most. He would never admit that out loud, even though it has been eating at him for weeks. He cannot go to Oswald for help anymore which has been annoyingly inconvenient, as Jim’s gotten stuck way too many times, unable to wholly dedicate himself to his work, his mind always pondering the actions of his monstrous self.

 

At one point, when Jim drank too much whiskey, he even ended up in front of Oswald’s new club, which was still under construction. He stared at it, trying to see through the covered windows, wondering if Oswald were inside and he if he’d welcome his old friend if Jim apologized. It didn’t matter; when Jim thought there was some movement in the building, panic grew inside him and he stumbled away, heart in his mouth.

 

Jim hasn’t seen Oswald ever since he got away with the stolen police car. Of course, that was found the next day, but Oswald, too, seemed to have withdrawn from the public life, for a while anyway. Then the next thing Jim heard was that Oswald would be reinstated as mayor. The news shocked him and he wondered whether it was a wise decision on Oswald’s part; yet when some drunkard questioned this in the bar the detective frequented, Jim was quick to shut the man down.

 

Jim went even so far as to attend the re-inauguration ceremony, watching from the back and making sure that he slipped away before anyone saw him. Oswald stood so proudly, power and self-confidence just rolling off of him, a polite smile on his lips. In that moment, Jim understood and he felt like suffocating. He wasn’t needed there, he represented an old and bad dream for Oswald. Rubbing his aching chest, Jim walked away and hoped his yearning would cease to exist, fade into nothingness.

 

Oswald Cobblepot didn't need him.

 

Jim is a fool masquerading as a hero. An imposter wearing a badge at the hip. The problem with trying to save this city, trying to be Gotham's hero fed Jim with too many lies, deluding him into believing that people need him.

 

It’s a well-constructed illusion, fueling Jim to restore Gotham, to cleanse it of its corruption from the roots. People needed a hero, someone to rescue them, to protect them.

 

His fingertips seep with damnation. His touch leaves a path of decay, worming its way through the people he supposedly saves, that he believed needed him.

 

But then he recalls the day at the pier. Oswald was trembling, pleading Jim to spare his life.  

 

If it had been anyone else, if it had been someone other than Jim tasked with killing Cobblepot, they wouldn't even have thought twice about pressing the barrel of the gun against Cobblepot's head and pulling the trigger.

 

Oswald needed him then.

 

But the days of exchanging favors and saving each other are long past. In the end, Oswald has crawled through the rumbles of the destruction Jim left him with, has strived until he’s once more topside, leaving Jim far, far behind.

 

Jim knows it's for the best, knows that Oswald's better off without Jim in his life. However, being aware of this does nothing, it doesn't prevent Jim from mourning their past, missing the way things used to be.

 

Before, when they worked alongside each other instead of against one another. Back when Jim could stomach seeing his reflection in the mirror.

 

It has been a long, tiresome day. Exhaustion following his steps, clinging at his heels. He’s dragging by the time he returns to the precinct, the sun is already descending, warm colors melting, blurring together along the horizon. Jim feels like something has extinguished inside him.

 

Most of the other officers have already left for the evening, but Jim has grown used to his late nights at the station. Always refusing to be the first to depart, staying until the raucous noises from the other officers and criminals drain out completely from the room, leaving him alone with the quiet.

 

Jim notices the darkened Captain's office as he reaches his desk, pulling the chair out. The door is shut and through the slits in the blinds, Jim can see the office is empty. He assumes that Harvey also clocked out for the night. Before, Harvey would stay behind, argue with Jim about working overtime, pleading his friend to go home and get some rest, but after one too many refusals, Harvey gave up.

 

He settles in his chair, leaning back with his hands holding the back of his head, delaying the inevitable paperwork that still needs to get finished. It's then his eyes catch the flashing red light on the phone beside the files. He picks up the handset, using his shoulder to hold it against his ear as he busies his hands, searching for some paper in his desk drawer. He jots the first couple messages down on before he reaches the last voicemail. The pencil slips through his fingers, hitting the desk with a soft clattering noise once he realizes who's called.

 

It's City Hall.

 

He listens to sounds of crackling from the phone line before a woman's voice appears. "Hello, this is Nancy from the Mayor's office. Mayor Cobblepot is requesting your presence-"

 

Jim doesn't bother listening to the rest of the message, skyrocketing out of his seat and fumbling with putting back on his coat. He pats down his jacket, searching for his gloves, but his pockets turn up empty. Jim pauses, trying to remember where the last place he has seen the gloves was, but he doesn't want to dawdle.

 

He ignores the way his heart flutters, catching for a moment before falling back into rhythm, drumming faster as he skips down the precinct stairs, taking two steps at a time. It's not until Jim reaches City Hall that he realizes how late it is, that Oswald might not even still be here. Abashed about his rushed actions, Jim's almost tempted to turn right back around, but a voice tickles in the back of his head: maybe he was wrong. Maybe Oswald does need him.

 

It's enough.

 

Tension builds as he enters the building, undulating in waves. Jim's footsteps echo across the marble floors as he makes his way to the Mayor's office. It's a familiar walk, his presence was asked for before, along with Harvey back when Aubrey James was still Mayor. He'd get his ear chewed for not being compliant, not following the Mayor or the Commissioner's orders. It's mostly vacant and dark, but he hears noises coming down from the end of the hall and sees light peeking out under the Mayor's door.

 

He waits, knuckles hovering over the door before Jim lightly knocks once. He doesn't wait for any response, already stepping inside the office. Oswald is standing behind his desk, hands holding a pair of leather gloves, gaze downwards as if he's about to tug the gloves on. Jim thinks Oswald must have been getting ready to leave before he interrupted.

 

Oswald's head snaps up once he hears the noise of the door shutting close. Jim thought Oswald would be expecting him, but instead, Oswald looks as if he's seen a ghost. He blanches once he realizes who's standing there, dropping the pair of gloves like they burnt him. The leather smacks against the desk.

 

He recovers quickly, stoic mask in place, but his color doesn't quite return. "Detective Gordon, I-I thought you weren't going to show."

 

"You called," Jim gruffly states as if that explains everything. He has to look away, pretending to study the room once he realizes how he must sound. _Desperate_. One call from Oswald and he comes running.

 

“Well, thank you for coming. I wanted to ask your opinion about the budget allocation for the GCPD for the next trimester,” Oswald says in a calmer tone and Jim hopes that his surprise doesn’t show on his face.

 

In all honesty, the topic is not something that Oswald should discuss with him, but rather with Harvey, since he’s the captain. A small flame comes to life in Jim’s chest; perhaps this is an attempt at reconciliation on Oswald’s part, an excuse to see the detective.

 

“Of course, Mr. Mayor,” Jim says and the flame gets stronger when Oswald’s eyelashes flutter at the title.

 

Oswald sits down in his chair, indicating to Jim one of the seats across his desk. Jim unbuttons his jacket as he sits down and leans back. It must be the weeks of exhaustion and his relief over seeing Oswald again, but his mind blanks a bit and he can’t focus on the words. Only a few of them penetrate Jim’s haze; Oswald is talking about some numbers and training for the officers, but then Jim notices that Oswald is playing absentmindedly with one of the gloves while talking, smoothing it and rubbing the fine leather.

 

While Oswald is droning on and on, his smooth voice lulling Jim even deeper into his little reverie, Jim’s keen eyes notice that the gloves seem too big for Oswald. The man has such delicate hands and slender fingers, there is no way the fingers of the gloves aren’t too loose for him. Jim glances up to Oswald’s eyes, then at the perfect pinstripe suit he’s wearing. Every item of clothing he’s wearing fits Oswald to a T, so there is no way he would put on a pair of gloves that are too big. At the same time, the detective’s own pair has gone missing for a while, simply vanished a while ago…

 

Jim’s mind becomes alight with suspicions.

 

“Oswald, where did you get those gloves?” Jim asks as he leans forward, elbows on his knees and chin propped up under his hands.

 

“What?” Oswald asks, frowning.

 

“Your gloves.” Jim points to them. “Where did you get them?”

 

“I bought them, bought them in a shop downtown,” Oswald says, pushing them to the side a bit. “As I was saying, considering that there is a bit of a surplus, I was thinking of spending that money on financing programs-”

 

“Which shop?” Jim asks, smirking when Oswald pinches his lips together.

 

“I don’t know, Jim, some shop on Main Street!” Oswald huffs, exasperated, and there are now two red spots on the gangster’s cheeks, so he’s clearly getting angry, even though his tone is still polite. “I need your input whether we should invest money in the current trainings or-”

 

“You know, those gloves look too big for you,” Jim says, licking his lower lip in anticipation when something deep within him starts uncoiling. He watches with great joy as the calm facade of Oswald crumbles right in front of his eyes.

 

Indeed, Oswald suddenly jumps up and hits the table with his hand. “For God’s sake, Jim, be serious for a second! I’m trying to discuss important matters with you!”

 

Jim and Oswald stare at each other across the table before the detective glances down at his hands. “You know, my gloves went missing. I wanted to put them on when I left the GCPD and I couldn’t find them. My fingers froze on the way here.”

 

He doesn’t miss the way Oswald swallows, even though the gangster recollects himself in the blink of an eye. “Sorry to hear that. Now, back to business-”

 

“Actually, I think they went missing the same time when you were in my police car the last time,” Jim states, his whole body trembling at the prospect of something so lecherous, he doesn’t even dare to imagine it yet.

 

His excitement only grows at the sight of Oswald becoming pallid, stuttering and fidgeting like a petty thief caught red-handed.

 

“Really, Jim? Accusing me of stealing your gloves? How dare you?!” Oswald exclaims, his voice too loud and protesting. “You will never cease to have a low opinion of me, will you? What would I need your gloves for, you know I have the means to buy as many pairs as I want to.”

 

Since Oswald is so preoccupied with his monologue, Jim shoots up from his seat and snatches the gloves from the desk with a triumphant smile. Oswald’s eyes widen with panic and that is the exact moment Jim knows that he’s won this. However, as if possessed by a mischievous spirit, he feels the need to draw out the gangster’s torture, to prolong their encounter and make it memorable.

 

“Hmm, this one even has a bit of scruff on the right thumb, just like my pair,” Jim says playfully as he examines the glove, then tries it on. “Would you look at that, Mr. Mayor, this seems to be a perfect fit.”

 

Oswald’s mouth is slightly open, cheeks pink as Jim lifts his eyes to his face. He clenches his right hand in front of his face all while staring at Oswald. “Alright, let’s stop playing games. Start talking, Oswald. Why did you take my gloves?”

 

Oswald doesn't speak, eyes locked on Jim's gloved fist. Jim watches his pale throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. For a moment, Jim's distracted by the creamy unmarked flesh, he's tempted to lean across the desk and suck bruises into Oswald's skin. So occupied with his own thoughts that he doesn't notice the gangster sneaking around the desk to make a quick escape.

 

Jim's reflexes act before his brain has the time to catch up, catching Oswald by the arm before he reaches the door, leather squeaking as his fingers tighten around his bicep. Something uncoils in his gut, his breath caught in his throat as they both stand there, frozen, statues of lovers embracing, carved out of stone.

 

He doesn't know what comes over him. Oswald's strong reaction causes any control Jim has left crumbles, like a rubber band being stretched until it reaches its breaking point until it snaps.

 

Oswald's pupils are blown wide. Shaky, fast exhales leave his lips as Jim tightens his hold, backing Oswald into the wall. Oswald stumbles over his feet, eyes fluttering shut as Jim's hands slide down his arm, gloved fingertips grazing the bare skin peeking from his shirt near as Jim grips his wrist.

 

The noise is unmistakable. A low guttural sound coming from the back of Oswald's throat.

 

He groans, biting his lower lip to stifle the noise. "Tell me, Oswald." Jim can hear how he sounds. Oswald's the one he's got pinned, trapped between him and the wall, yet he feels like he's the one unraveling. He should sound like he's in control. It should be a simple demand, instead it sounds more like he's pleading. "Tell me why you took my gloves."

 

He needs to know, desperate to hear his suspicions being confirmed from the gangster himself.

 

A fire ignites in the pit of his belly when he hears the moan that slips through Oswald's mouth, arousal dripping off his tongue as he speaks. "Answer me, Oswald."

 

At first Oswald just stares at him, then his lips part. Jim is watching them, trembling with anticipation, clinging to every little sigh Oswald heaves, until the man looks behind Jim’s back with an alarmed expression and Jim spins around, afraid that someone caught them.

 

However, he soon realizes that it’s just a ruse on Oswald’s part who slips from between his hands and is about to make an escape. This time, though, Jim catches Oswald by embracing him from behind, smirking as the mayor wiggles in his hold. Jim is intoxicated by Oswald’s proximity, inhaling his heady perfume as Oswald leans against his shoulder and the whiff reaches Jim’s nose.

 

“Oh, Oswald… you should know by now that you cannot escape me,” Jim murmurs into Oswald’s right ear, his left hand sliding to his neck.

 

He gently tilts Oswald’s head to the right, both of them breathing harder since they are so very close now, a mere inch between them. Jim wants to lean in and press his lips against Oswald’s, but he wants to play a bit before doing that.

 

“I think I have an idea of what you got up to with my gloves,” Jim says and raises his right hand to Oswald’s face, caressing his soft skin with great delicacy.

 

Oswald exhales shakily, leaning into his touch, his eyes wide and staring at Jim’s lips. The tip of Jim’s nose touches Oswald’s as he leans in and he’s almost tempted to kiss it, but instead, Jim closes the distances even more between them, teasing him, their lips almost touching. Oswald whimpers and tries to launch himself forward, to finally get that long-desired kiss, but Jim pulls back.

“You should give up the charade, Oswald. I already caught you.”

 

Oswald wiggles, but to no avail. Jim is holding him tight, like a treasure that he finally found and never wants to give up.

 

“I’m a detective, remember?”

 

Oswald huffs. “It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

 

Jim laughs with his forehead against Oswald’s temple. After a while, he notices that Oswald stopped fighting and he loosens his hold.

 

“Good,” Jim whispers into Oswald’s ear, letting his hands slide lower on Oswald’s torso, under his suit.

 

The gangster lets out a moan and Jim presses his cheek against Oswald’s, hot and flushed, as his fingers glide over the expensive material of his shirt. He finds the space between two buttons and slips his index finger inside, lightly tickling Oswald’s bare skin. He’s rewarded with breathy sounds and Jim closes his eyes.

 

“What should I do about you?”

 

“ _Jim_ , please!”

 

Oswald crying out his name leaves Jim shivering, his growing erection straining against his zipper. It's overwhelming having the gangster standing so close. Jim loses himself to the sensations, hearing Oswald's begging that at this point sounds like he's reciting a prayer consisting of " _oh please, touch me_ ," and " _James_ " over and over again.

 

Jim squeezes his eyes, hard enough where he sees colorful stars underneath his eyelids. He's breathing fast, coming unravel at the edges. He loosens his hold, enough where Oswald could wiggle out of his grip, but the gangster whines at the loss of contact when Jim tries to distance himself, trying to reel in some self-control.

 

Oswald steps backward, his back flush against Jim's chest. A moan escapes Jim's throat, deep from his chest when Oswald starts rubbing against him.

 

"I stole from you, James. Aren't you going to punish me?"

 

Jim's tongue is heavy in his mouth, too heavy to find words as Oswald continues his ministrations.

 

"C'mon, Jim, I committed a crime. I know how long you've been itching to punish me."

 

Jim murmurs, so low and hoarse that he doesn't even recognize himself. "I should teach you a lesson. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

 

Oswald grabs his hands, guiding one upwards towards his throat. Jim understands what he's asking. He keeps a loose hold, rubbing the base of his throat with his thumb. Leather sliding over pale skin.

 

He throws his head back, resting against Jim's shoulder as he bares his throat for Jim to take. Jim's fingers continue their slow pace, capturing Oswald's jaw, turning his head where Jim can feel Oswald pant against his lips.

 

"Teach me, James." Oswald urges, his hand moves to cover Jim's free hand, pushing his hand lower, slipping down his chest until Jim's fingers hit metal, fingertips Oswald's belt buckle.

 

His eyes never leave Oswald's as he unbuckles Oswald's belt, hand sneaking down to his zipper. He takes ahold of it. He’s intoxicated as he closes the small distance between them, feeling Oswald's breath against his lips before he plunges in.

 

Oswald welcomes his tongue easily, mouth falling open as he moans against Jim's lips as Jim starts to unzip his trousers. He's almost distracted by the warmth of Oswald's mouth, his tongue sliding along Oswald's as he licks his way inside.

 

He reluctantly draws away, much to the gangster's disappointment. Jim shushes Oswald's whimpers, resting his cheek against Oswald's.

 

It's a beautiful sight, Oswald falling apart from Jim's touch alone. His breath quickening, chest rising and falling fast as Jim slips his hand inside Oswald's pants.

 

"Is this what you wanted?" Jim's hand hovers just over Oswald's cock, feeling the heat of his erection through the material of his boxers. One quick swipe of his palm across the length of Oswald's clothed cock has Oswald crying out.

 

Oswald shakes in his arms, head tossed back as he bucks his hips, encouraging Jim to move his hand once more. Jim gets a huge whiff of Oswald's cologne, filling his nostrils as Oswald squirms in his embrace.

 

"Jim..."

 

He folds hearing Oswald's voice break with desperation, starts moving his hand back and forth, rubbing Oswald's cock through his boxers.

 

"Is this how you imagined me?"

 

Oswald nods, too far gone at this point to speak, eyes squeeze shut as he thrust against Jim's hand, but it's not enough. He needs to hear Oswald say it.

 

So Jim pauses, hand stilling and Oswald's reaction is immediate. A long, broken whine falls from his lips. "Jim!"  

 

"Answer me, Oswald."

 

“Yes,” Oswald finally replies shakily, “but this is better.”

 

Jim bites his lip, his chest feels too small to hold in all his emotions. He lays hot, quick kisses onto Oswald’s neck, dragging his nose against Oswald’s jaw. “That’s it, you’re doing so well, Oswald. You feel great in my arms.”

 

Oswald breathes a relieved sigh as Jim tugs down his underwear at long last, his cock bobbing as it is freed. Jim’s cock twitches at the sight and he rubs himself against Oswald before Jim takes his cock into his hand. Oswald captures Jim’s lips as he makes the first movements, slow and deliberate.

 

Jim breaks the kiss reluctantly, turning Oswald’s complaining whimper into one of need as he runs his gloved fist over the tip of Oswald’s cock, making it slick with precome before he starts stroking. Based on the sounds and erratic thrusts Oswald does, Jim knows he won’t last, even though Jim tries to distract him with kisses and licks to his neck.

 

His gloved fist slides easily over Oswald’s skin, the precome facilitating the smooth gliding. Jim thinks he could come from the image alone, the heat radiating from Oswald and the smell of sex and his intensive perfume mingling. But the biggest turn on, perhaps, is that Oswald still desires him, still needs him, and has been fantasizing about him.

 

“Jim, I’m-I’m-” Oswald moans brokenly and Jim knows what he means.

 

The detective knows Oswald won’t last long; frankly, their foreplay started the moment he stepped into the mayoral office and their eyes met.

 

“It’s alright, I got you,” Jim whispers against Oswald’s lips.

 

He doesn’t take his eyes off Oswald’s face as his strokes became more frantic, only the moment Oswald’s mouth falls open and his green eyes widen, a low moan leaving his lips. Jim looks down, watches as Oswald fucks into his fist, thrusting two more times before he comes. The pearly white fluid coating the black leather glove makes Jim buck against Oswald’s ass and give out a guttural sound. After making sure that he draws out Oswald’s orgasm, Jim turns his head, breathing hard against Oswald’s lips.

 

Oswald is still trembling when their lips touch and Jim brushes his face with his other hand, gently and soothingly. They kiss softly while Oswald’s breathing becomes normal again and his cheeks regain their usual color. Jim releases him, holding his right hand up so as not to stain anything while he watches Oswald become proper again. Well, almost. His hair is not as pointy as before and the redness of his lips certainly betrays him. It’s a wonderful sight and Jim smiles when Oswald looks at him.

 

For some reason, Jim is convinced that this is where it ends, so he’s shocked when Oswald takes a step toward him and reaches for his zipper. His good reflexes make Jim grab Oswald’s wrist, stopping him. They stare at each other for a couple of seconds before Jim recovers from his surprise.

 

“It’s fine, Oswald. I didn’t expect you to return the favor.”

 

“I know, but I want to.”

 

Jim laughs nervously. “Don’t worry about me.”

 

“Let me, Jim. _Please_ ,” Oswald is practically begging and Jim’s mouth opens when Oswald’s eyelashes flutter. “After all, what are friends for?”

 

Unexpectedly, Oswald sinks to his knees, knocking the breath from Jim's lungs. Jim's cock twitches as bright, eager eyes stare up at him. Anticipation builds as desire pools below his navel.

 

Jim knows what comes next.

 

Jim drinks in the sight of Oswald kneeling at his feet. Dark, tousled hair that spills across his forehead. He can't resist the urge to reach out, forgetting about his come-splattered gloves, and running the pad of his thumb over Oswald's swollen lips.

 

Oswald grabs Jim's hand, holding it steady as he begins to lick, the tip of his tongue tracing along Jim's fingers. His eyes never leave Jim's not until Jim pushes one of his digits into Oswald's hot mouth.

 

The gangster doesn't blink, doesn't hesitate; instead, Oswald moans around his finger and Jim has to wonder if he's fantasized about this before.

 

Jim loses himself to the sensations as Oswald starts bobbing his head, sucking on his gloved finger. Saliva and come mingling as Oswald swirls his tongue. Jim's beyond aroused, erection painfully pressing against his zipper as Oswald easily takes another finger into his mouth. Jim knows this is a mere preview, a shameless show of what's to come.

 

Oswald releases his fingers with a noisy smack of his lips. One pale, slender hand gripping Jim's thigh, steadying himself as he slowly unzips Jim's pants with the other.

 

Jim's helpless as Oswald hooks his fingers inside his waistband. He waits for a second, gazing up at Jim for permission. When Jim gives a shaky nod, Oswald continues, tugging down his pants and boxers until they gather around his knees.

 

Oswald dives right in, leaving hot open-mouth kisses against his skin. Jim's breath hitches as Oswald’s mouth trails upward, pressing soft kisses until he reaches Jim's hard member.

 

Jim's fingers slide into Oswald's hair, tangling into the raven locks as Oswald's tongue skims over the slit in Jim's dick, licking at the precome gathering at the tip. Oswald opens his mouth gingerly and sucks the head of Jim’s dick into his mouth, causing the detective to curse under his breathe, pleasure shooting down his spine like a wildfire.

 

“Fuck, that feels so good.”

 

Oswald swallows Jim deeper after hearing the praise, bobbing his head eagerly, and Jim has to cup his face, to stroke that porcelain skin, even though he can’t feel it under his fingertips. Nevertheless, Oswald seems to enjoy it, his eyes closing in pleasure. It is such a beautiful image, yet at the same time so debauched, that Jim has the urge to comment on it, to tease Oswald about it.

 

“What would the citizens say if they saw their mayor on his knees?”

 

Oswald moans around Jim’s cock, the vibration making Jim’s skin tingle and his arms to break out in goosebumps. Oswald is completely flushed and when he looks up at Jim, the detective can read in that scorching gaze that he’s in trouble for that naughty remark. He smiles appeasingly at Oswald, wiping away saliva from the corner of his mouth.

 

Although the gesture earns Jim a caress on his thigh, Oswald is still set to make a babbling mess of Jim. He suddenly takes Jim even deeper, his sucking and rhythm merciless. Jim thinks his knees are going to give out under him and he grabs onto the edge of Oswald’s desk, knuckles turning white as he grips it harder. Oswald dives in once again, more slowly and deliberately, lips stretching over Jim’s thick cock and once he’s taken Jim almost completely, he exhales against the detective’s dark blonde pubic hair.

 

Jim is pretty sure that the will soon be consumed by the fires of pleasure.

 

The flames are suddenly doused, like a splash of water drenching over Jim as Oswald pulls off completely, his cock slipping off his lips.

 

Oswald's hand takes the place of his mouth, wrapping around the base of Jim's dick, not extinguishing the fire completely, the embers still burning, glowing hot.

 

His strokes are slow, fingers gliding over his skin. Jim moans, arching his back, helplessly bucking into Oswald's fist. Oswald leans forward, tongue sinking into the V of Jim's hips, mapping the valley that dips between his hipbone. He continues the leisure pace, leaving Jim frustrated and begging for more.

 

"Oswald… Please."

 

Oswald's smirking when he comes up, eyeing the rapidly blooming hickies he left on Jim's hipbone with satisfaction.

 

"Use your words, Jim. Tell me what you want."

 

"Your mouth." Jim shakily exhales. "I want your mouth."

 

Oswald plunges forward, kissing his muscular thighs and drawing out a whine from Jim.

 

"You have to be specific, James," Oswald scolds. "Where do you want my mouth? Here?"

 

Oswald watches Jim's reaction carefully as he kisses the tip of his cock.

 

Jim shakes his head.

 

"No? How about here?" Oswald's lips move lower down his shaft.

 

It takes a moment for Jim to find words, his tongue heavy in his mouth. "Fuck, Oswald… please."

 

"Please what?"

 

His face burns as the lewd words fall from his lips. "Please suck my cock, Oswald. Please."

 

The fire returns, building under his skin when Oswald starts sucking, taking Jim's cock once more into his mouth. Jim rolls his hips forward, attempting to rein control over the force of his thrusts.

 

Disappointedly, Oswald releases his cock. "Is that all you got, detective? C'mon, Jim, I know you can do better than that."

 

Jim reaches down, seizing Oswald’s chin with his hand, holding it between his thumb and index finger, tilting the mobster's head up. "Are you sure?"

 

The question catches Oswald off-guard, he blinks at Jim's hesitation. Oswald nods, curling his hands around the back of Jim's thighs. His nails dig deep into his flesh, sharp pinpricks into his thighs.

 

"You can fuck my face, Jim. I want you to," Oswald assures.

 

Jim's thumb swipes over Oswald's cheekbone, caressing his face as he slowly pushes his cock past Oswald's lips, back into the surrounding wet warmth of his mouth.

 

He doesn't hold back, snapping his hips forward in earnest. Arousal is thick in the air, enough to taste it. Jim's close, but something blocks him from his release, despite hearing Oswald's moans, the vibration causes Jim to tremble, but it's not enough.

 

Oswald must sense his struggle because his hands stroke the back of his thighs, reassuringly. Soft, slow touches up and down the back of his legs that relax Jim. Oswald looks up at him, eyes wide, open and honest, their pale color contrasting so perfectly with the blackness of the smudged mascara around them. Jim can’t control himself anymore at the sight of this wanton beauty, his rhythm becomes frenzied and he moans keenly.

 

What does it for Jim is Oswald gazing up at him again, raising his right hand and slipping a finger between his cheeks. No one has ever touched him there, so when Oswald rubs his hole, Jim’s hips buck roughly as he comes, shouting Oswald’s name. He can feel the tip of his cock hitting the back of Oswald’s throat, which makes him orgasm even harder. However, the gangster bears it with bravado even when his mouth is flooded with Jim’s come.

 

Jim has to grip the table with all his might, his legs trembling. Oswald is there, though, stroking his thighs, mouth still around Jim’s cock. He slowly lets go of it, licking any trace of come and making Jim hiss, his skin sensitive. Oswald takes the pocket square from his suit and discreetly wipes his mouth, then helps Jim with his underwear and pants.

 

Although his heart's still pumping fast, Jim’s mind is slowly catching up with what’s just happened and he can already sense a sinking feeling in his gut. He reaches out for Oswald’s hands and helps him up, catching him when Oswald stumbles a bit. His knees must hurt, Jim thinks, so he doesn’t let go of Oswald, holding him close as they look at each other, trying to read each other’s thoughts.

 

“You okay?” Jim asks quietly, face red, wondering if he’d ever been in a more awkward situation.

 

When Oswald nods, Jim cups his face for a second, patting Oswald’s cheek, but then his eyes fall on his gloved hand and Jim is seized by panic yet again. _Oh no, what have I done_ , is a recurring thought and he lets go of Oswald and takes off the gloves, almost pushing them against Oswald’s chest.

 

He runs a hand through his hair, hopes that his clothes don’t look too rumpled and that his face and smell won’t betray him. When Jim looks back from the door, Oswald is leaned against his desk, hands clutching the gloves and heavy gaze pinned on the detective. He looks like the very image of sin, lips red and swollen and eyes sparkling, proud and unashamed.

 

“See you around, old friend.”

 

Jim doesn’t say anything, just shivers even harder at the sound of Oswald’s husky voice. He wants to say something, perhaps that it was a mistake, or just throw an insult, but deep down, he knows it would be a lie. Flustered, he shakes his head and yanks open the door, hoping that he won’t meet anyone on his way back home.

 

He vows that nothing like this will ever happen again, even though he knows he’s been singed, forever branded by Oswald.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to druxykexy for the beta!
> 
> EDIT: so sorry that the pics weren't showing up before, hopefully it's going to work now

Jim lies wide awake, his arm tossed over his face, the crook of his elbow covering his eyes as sleep evades him.

 

It has been five days since the incident in Oswald's office. Jim swore the lapse of control was a one-time event, promised himself that he would entirely erase the memory from his brain.

 

Pretend it never happened in the first place.

 

It was easier during the day. Jim could distract himself with work, because crime never ran dry in Gotham. But when the sun starts to dip along the horizon, when Jim's back home, that's when the memories come rushing back.

 

He feels warm despite shucking his pajamas, leaving him completely naked other than a pair of thin boxers. Jim even opens a window in his bedroom, hoping the night air could smother the fire underneath his skin. The only sign of the chilly air has on him is his legs and arms erupting in goosebumps, but he doesn't feel the cold.

 

His exposed skin burns, a pair of invisible hands coasts down his sweat-slick body. Jim knows whom the hands belong to, hasn't been able to forget the pressure of the gangster's fingertips.  

 

Feather-light touches turn heavier, nails scratching down his thighs, causing his knees to spread reflexively wider, allowing the ghost to settle between his legs.

 

Jim rolls over onto his stomach, the tip of his cock peeking out from the waistband of his boxers, growing more erect as his imagination runs wild. He feels like he's on fire, a wispy smoke forming from his body, taking shape as a silhouette lying under him.

 

He shuts his eyes and envisions the gangster writhing beneath him. Naked, pale skin on display. Dark eyelashes fluttering as green eyes stare up at him. Moans falling from parted, swollen lips.

 

Jim wiggles out of his boxers, kicking them along with the covers to the bottom of the mattress. He grinds his aching dick into the mattress. He's making a mess, precome steadily dripping from his cock, leaking onto his sheets, but he can't help himself.

 

What would Oswald say if he saw him resorting to this? Probably call him a stubborn fool. Ask him why ruin good sheets by himself when he could have Oswald in his bed with one phone call?

 

He shivers as he hears Oswald in his head. Remembers how wrecked his voice sounded, how low and raspy.

 

_“See you around, old friend.”_

 

It was a promise and a warning all wrapped up into one. Oswald wasn't going to forget their evening together and Jim doubts Oswald was going to let Jim either.

 

Jim doesn't think he can even if he wanted to.

 

His hips stutter in their pace as he remembers the pressure of Oswald's fingertips, his hand sneaking between his legs and the pad of his digit running over his rim.

 

He's never been touched there. Not once in all his past relationships. It had been an area never traversed even by himself. The possibility of pleasure there had never occurred to him until Oswald had touched him.

 

Oswald had unlocked something inside him. A curiosity to explore, an itch that one scratch wouldn't satisfy. Jim longs for it, yearns for the pressure once more.

 

Taking a deep breath, Jim flips over, a loud groan escaping him as he squirms against the sheet. He only meant to shimmy down along the mattress, settling back among the sheets, getting comfortable once more. He doesn't expect to find relief from it. The pressure of the sheet against his anus as he bears down, arching his back as he rolls his hips again chasing the pleasure.

 

He forces himself to still before he gets too carried away with his movements. Planting the soles of his feet onto the bed, he lifts his hips, one hand curled around his cock, slowly tugging while the other slips past his balls. His fingertips trail along his perineum, before reaching his hole.

 

Jim tries to rub over the rim, a circular motion but the angle's too awkward. His touch doesn't feel the same as Oswald's had and Jim grows more and more frustrated.

 

The first night he gives up, bringing himself off by his hands tugging at his cock with thoughts of Oswald burying himself balls deep inside Jim's ass, his hips pistoning in and out of him.

 

He comes harder than he's ever had at the image.

 

But that doesn't stop his attempts. He tries different positions each night, on his knees, turning over onto his sides, on his stomach. Even tries slipping a finger inside him once to see if that would be what it takes, but nothing works.

 

Oswald had ruined him.

 

So when the occasion presents itself, Jim doesn’t hesitate to grab it. Harvey needs someone to take some documents to City Hall, something about the plan for the police force distribution during the upcoming holiday season and various events that are going to be organized. He narrows his eyes at Jim’s eagerness, but doesn’t comment on anything.

 

Jim’s pulse increases as he waits in one of the plush seats in front of the mayoral office. A few minutes later, Nancy, Oswald’s assistant, smiles at him. “The Mayor will see you now, Detective Gordon.”

 

Swallowing, Jim gets up and smoothes his suit nervously, glancing at the other people milling in the hallway. After knocking, Jim opens the door and Oswald’s eyes light up instantly as he looks up from the document he’s reading.

 

“Hello, Jim. It’s good to see you.”

 

Jim nods in acknowledgement and he shuts the door, suddenly feeling like he has entrapped himself in a burning house from where there is no escape. He barely manages to take one step forward, legs shaking as Oswald leans back against his ridiculously tall seat, visibly enjoying his hesitance.

 

“How can I _help_ you, my old friend?”

 

Of course, the question is accompanied by a lewd smile, something that only Jim would understand. Jim’s knees almost buckle and he thinks about how easy it would be to just drop onto them on the soft, plush carpet and leave himself at the mercy of Oswald, tell him that he hasn’t been able to think straight ever since their encounter. His forehead starts sweating and Jim quickly remembers the excuse that allowed him access into this forbidden territory.

 

“Harvey asked me to bring back these documents. They’re all signed and approved.”

 

“Mmh,” is all that Oswald says, elbow on the armrest of the chair, propping up his chin.

 

Jim feels small under the heavy gaze, feels as if he’s made of glass and Oswald can see through him and crack him at any given moment.

 

“Are you sure there’s nothing else, Jim? You came all the way here because of some papers?”

 

“They were important,” Jim mutters and he quickly steps forward and deposits them on Oswald’s desk, avoiding his eyes, then takes a few steps back.

 

He’s never been good at voicing his desires, not when it came to simple things like what to ask for Christmas or in bed, from his lovers. Jim’s gaze sweeps across Oswald, who is still considering him, as if he were in the middle of a life-changing decision. Jim wishes he could walk up there again and just sit in front of Oswald, on his desk. Maybe yank his beautiful, silver and blue brocade tie, and capture his lips in a fierce kiss. Jim is now thinking about how the last time they haven’t even managed to kiss properly and liquid fire travels through his veins.

 

“I must admit that you’re playing hard, Jim,” Oswald says, laughing, as he rises from the chair.

 

Jim swallows as he watches Oswald quietly advancing on him like a predator. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Oswald just smirks knowingly and Jim cannot help taking steps back, the two of them almost dancing until suddenly Oswald backs him against the door.

 

Jim’s heart almost breaks out from his ribcage when Oswald places his right hand on his chest, the touch hot. “Can’t stop thinking about it, can you, detective?”

 

He is almost tempted to nod, but he’s sure that Oswald can see the answer in his wide eyes, because in the next moment his hand travels upward, fingertips lightly grazing Jim’s neck. Oswald leans in, as if to smell Jim’s cologne, but he goes even closer, lips barely an inch away from Jim’s. “Do you want me to touch you?”

 

Oswald’s quiet words are in startling contrast with the violent reaction they provoke in Jim. His lips part and his tongue is ready to form the word, to confirm Oswald’s suspicions and to give him permission at once. He wants it more than anything to just let the gangster do whatever he wants to him, to fulfill their dirtiest fantasies. Jim glances down at Oswald’s index finger drawing circles on his chest and he remembers where that finger was a few days ago  and he almost moans out his reply, _almost_ , but then he remembers the people outside and the shame he felt after leaving the first time.

 

He wants it badly, but Jim cannot give in. What a fool he was.

 

Jim takes Oswald’s hand off his hand and swallows, already missing the warmth. He squeezes the delicate fingers once before he lets go. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he murmurs so lowly that he’s not even sure if Oswald heard him.

 

Hoping that people can’t see that he’s half hard, Jim leaves City Hall yet again, more frustrated than when he arrived.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His office door clicks shut behind Jim, but Oswald remains where his feet are planted, doesn't watch as Jim swiftly retreats like an animal scurrying elsewhere after being cornered, evading capture.

 

He stares at his own hand, the one the detective had squeezed. It had been overwhelmingly intimate, Jim's soft gaze never lifting away from his hand. Oswald had almost anticipated a kiss placed upon his knuckles. A graze of lips in lieu of a goodbye from a departing lover.

 

That night in his office was unexpected. Two men stripped to their primitive instincts. Animalistic impulses where neither one was the predator. Both were prey to their own desires.

 

He expected rough and fast. Bruises and wild rutting from years of pent-up frustrations finally taken out on each other.

 

There had been a gentleness Oswald hadn't envisioned. Jim's soft gaze, the considerate hesitation on Oswald's behalf, helping Oswald to his feet once he finished. It tugs at him, pulling the ends of his ribbons, leaving him unraveled at the seams.

 

Clearly, he wasn't the only one affected. Jim's reasoning for visiting had been weak. The documents were only a pretense for the detective to seek Oswald out once more. Oswald had seen right through the excuse. Jim could pretend like it never happened, but they had crossed a line. A permanent change in their dynamic, an unforgettable night.

 

He recalls Jim's reaction when he had touched him, rubbed at his hole. How Jim's eyes shot open, cock spasming as his come flooded Oswald's mouth.

 

It had startled the detective, being touched there so intimately. A reaction so strong that Oswald realized that it was a first for Jim.

 

Jim had become undone from just one touch. Oswald wonders how he'd respond had Oswald managed to get a finger inside him.

 

The detective must have wondered that too. The way Jim had been staring at his hands. If all it took was one lust-fueled encounter to get Jim's attention, he would've tried this years ago.

 

For the first time, Oswald managed to light a fire under Jim's feet. He knows what sparked the flame and he refuses to let the fire be extinguished. His gaze lands on his phone and Oswald smiles as a plan starts forming in his head.

 

He will start the attack tomorrow and Jim won’t even know what hit him.

 

* * *

 

 

Oswald is a successful businessman, a crimelord, a reinstated mayor, a survivor of multiple murder attempts and many, many other things, but one thing he is not is a fool. He’s staring at his phone and almost flings it at the wall since Jim Gordon honestly thinks he can make Oswald into one.

 

   

 

It’s been more than two hours since he’s sent the last text - admittedly it was rather provocative, meant to get a rise out of the detective - but his majesty, James Gordon, still hasn’t deigned to reply. A muscle trembles in Oswald’s jaw as he grips his desk, closing his eyes and willing himself to calm down. He’s waited over three years, he could do this. Rome wasn’t built in a day either.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jim is a ticking bomb, waiting to explode.

 

All because of one wicked man called Oswald Cobblepot who won’t let him go, texting him as if they were lovers and expecting answers.

 

Jim closes his eyes as his phone beeps again, signalling a new message. He manages to ignore it for a few minutes, but curiosity is killing him. When he finally opens the message, he almost drops his phone because this time, Oswald sent him a picture. It’s one of him with some kind of caffeinated beverage in front of him with a tall swirl of cream and Oswald has his index finger in his mouth, eyes closed. It is captioned with ‘That cream tasted so good’ and Jim feels as if something flares up inside him, his whole head becoming red.

 

The little shit knows what he’s doing, sending such a suggestive image, reminding Jim of their wild encounter. Jim looks behind his shoulders, but no one is paying him attention, the precinct quiet for once. Even though he knows that it will make it worse, Jim can’t help it, he opens the message again and taps on the picture to see it in its full glory. He wishes Oswald wouldn’t be so distracting. His phone beeps again and Jim is surprised to see that he received a second picture.

 

This one is in the same vein as the first picture, but here Oswald’s eyes are slightly open, gazing into the camera and into Jim’s soul, promising to fulfill all his secret fantasies. Suddenly, Jim feels hot under his collar and he can’t stop thinking of how Oswald looked up at him, his dark eyelashes against his pale skin, beautiful eyes burning with desire.

 

Jim sets aside his phone and tries to focus on the file lying in front of him, but he’s only half successful, his thoughts always returning to Oswald. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to deal with this. Obviously, the best would be to block Oswald’s number, even if that could result in an ugly scandal if Oswald found out. Or maybe Oswald is more mature than Jim who’s trying to pretend that he hasn’t been affected by their secret rendezvous or Oswald’s texts.

 

For now, Jim decides to keep his messages, not dwelling on the reasons. However, as a measure of precaution he changes Oswald’s name to Peter Humboldt, an alias Oswald used when he came back to Gotham and visited Jim.

 

Nevertheless, the more Jim ignores the gangster, the more insistently Oswald messages him. That night when Jim is in his bed, setting his alarm for the next day, his phone pings again. It’s another picture, a very artistic one of Oswald’s chest and just half of his face included. His indigo shirt is unbuttoned, the color in stark contrast against his pale chest, his delicate hand placed on his sternum, fingertips touching the base of his neck. Oswald’s face is turned away, his lips parted, as if awaiting a kiss.

 

The caption simply reads ‘ _If I set my heart on anything but you, let fire burn me from inside_ ’. Jim breathes fast, heart ticking like a clock that was wound too much. He stares at the picture and the words, a burning ache forming in his chest. He zooms in on the image, admires the play of light and shadow so perfectly captured on Oswald’s body, wishing he could map out all of them with his lips and tongue.

 

Jim stares at the image for a while, then connects his phone to the charger and even in his dark bedroom, he can see that elegant neck and the words buzzing in his mind until he finally falls asleep, tortured all night by images of a pale hand and green eyes.

 

When dawn breaks, Jim's already awake, his chest rapidly climbing and falling in a series of quick heavy breaths. The rising sun spills through the window, cascading over his bare skin and sheets. Jim lingers in bed, not wanting to face the long day ahead. While the sun may be shining, there's no warmth to it, not since winter's approach.

 

It’s not just the cold he isn't looking forward to. He hoped that yesterday was just a bad dream, but the stark reality followed to his subconscious. A lust hazy nightmare. Except it certainly didn't feel like a nightmare, given that he could feel the cooling sticky mess in his boxers.  

 

He groans, glancing down the length of his torso, down at his own body's betrayal. Jim has lost any semblance of control; suddenly he feels like a teenager again, having no authority over his reactions. Oswald's photos left his blood draining from his brain and making a beeline for his cock, filling the blood vessels.

 

Throwing the covers off him, Jim makes his way towards the shower, hoping being submerged in cold water will help douse the burning under his skin. He shimmies out of his boxers, leaving them behind on the wooden floor.

 

Standing underneath the showerhead, water pours over him, washing away the grime from the day before, but it doesn't seem to scrub away the images Oswald sent. He knows it's too late, that the images are burnt into his memory.

 

Jim doesn't even try to resist as his cock grows heavy again, taking it in his hand, he steadies himself with the other one against the shower wall. Fast pants escape his lips as he recalls Oswald's creamy white skin. The long expanse of his pale throat that Jim can't help but want to suck bruises on its unmarked flesh. He jerks himself quickly, coming with a loud groan and a splash of come hitting the wall. His hips stutter as his hand tightens at the base of his cock. He keeps fucking his fist, milking the orgasm. He thrusts once, twice, three times before he drops his hand.

 

Ashamed of his own actions, Jim's quick to clean the evidence of his orgasm. He tucks a towel around his waist as he exits the shower, forgoing his usual routine of getting ready for work since it was still early.

 

Jim sits on the edge of his bed, a nervous energy swirling in his gut as he unplugs his phone from the charger on his nightstand. He hesitates before turning it on, wondering if Oswald will admit defeat at Jim's continued silence.

 

He knows better than to underestimate Oswald's tenacity. After all, the gangster didn’t climb the ranks from umbrella boy to mayor without some sense of determination.

 

His phone pings, alerting him to a new message. Jim isn't foolish enough to think it’s Harvey, no way would he be awake this early. Not even for an emergency.

 

Jim could ignore it, he knows it would be better to just turn off his phone, to not even glimpse at what the message could contain. But curiosity is a deadly thing. It awakens in him, flooding him with a million of questions. Is this the usual hour Oswald wakes up at? What's the morning routine like for the mayor?

 

His fingers twitch, hovering over the phone screen for a second before he taps it, opening the message.

 

Immediately, he regrets it.

 

It's a picture with an accompanying message asking if Jim liked his new trousers and the view. Oswald's standing in front of a mirror, his body twisted at the waist, accentuating the shape of his body, and he’s gazing over his shoulder, phone in one hand. Jim drinks in the sight. He's only dressed halfway, his usual vest and jacket missing from his wardrobe, just in a tight button-down that tapers at his waist, emphasizing the curvature of his spine. He follows the dip, eyes hungrily tracing the outline of Oswald's ass.

 

His cock stirs underneath his towel as he remembers the night in Oswald's office. The perfect shape of Oswald's ass when Jim was grinding against him, the way Oswald would push back eagerly.

 

A wanton moan escapes from his throat as he starts to unwrap the towel around his waist, his cock bobbing as he frees it from the constraints of the towel. Jim falls back onto his bed. He reasons he'll have enough time for another quick shower.

 

Oswald is going to be the death of him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Although Jim enjoyed immensely the pictures Oswald sent him, he’s glad when there is a respite in the messages. There is a new case that he cannot break just yet, despite having interviewed several people and possible suspects. He’s exhausted and his thoughts are in a whirl, trying to come up with a possible theory as to what happened to the victim.

 

In the afternoon, Jim can feel his phone buzz in his pocket, but he’s in a meeting with Harvey and other officials. He’s itching to take his phone out and read them, but he has to focus on work. Besides, he’s not sure what his reaction would be if he opened something indecent in public.

 

Finally, the meetings are over and Jim goes to his desk, his thumb already nervously tapping the screen. Surprisingly, they are just text messages and rather more innocent than Jim’s expected. The last one surprises him especially.

 

 

 

‘ _So lonely_ ,’ Jim reads over and over again, his chest constricting painfully and he taps on the text message box, ready to send a simple message, maybe just a hello. He passes a hand over his face, rubbing it vigorously while contemplating what to do. In the end, Harvey decides for him, calling Jim into his office, so he closes the message, thinking that he could send something later.

 

Talking to Harvey helps Jim make some connections in the case, so he becomes busy chasing them down, feeling that finally something is moving about the case, that they are making some progress. Jim has to go to the archive and retrieve older files, then he compares them. He never gets to send that message to Oswald.

 

Instead, Oswald precedes him again, but this time his messages are of a completely different nature. After reading them, Jim quickly gets up from his chair, the movement causing the furniture to make a horrible screech against the floor, attracting the attention of several officers. Jim doesn’t care, he just hurries in the locker room, back thudding against the door as he closes it.

 

He opens the message again, eyes bulging out at how explicit it is and how Oswald just managed to target his most secret dream, one that he hasn’t even been aware of just a couple of minutes ago. His cock twitches as he can almost feel the hardness of the desk under his chest and Oswald’s soft touch on his backside teasing him and the gangster’s breath as he whispers dirty things in his ears.

 

Jim slaps himself, trying to physically remove those forbidden images from his mind. He absolutely _cannot_ be thinking about engaging in such activities with Oswald, especially not at the GCPD. He’s an adult, for fuck’s sake, he can control his thoughts!

 

Jim breathes in deeply and then sends a short message, telling Oswald to stop.

 

Of course, Oswald’s reply comes instantaneously, he was probably waiting for Jim’s retort, smirking to himself at his boldness. As expected, he’s snarky, mocking Jim, and the detective feels his blood boil, ready to pocket his phone, go to City Hall and teach the mayor a lesson.

 

Except, that’s what happened the last time as well…

 

Jim is ready to go back to his desk when there is a new message, just a simple question this time.

 

_Do you really want me to stop, James?_

 

Of course, the logical answer would be yes, a thousand times yes, and Jim’s finger hovers over the y, but he cannot bring himself to type that. He actually doesn’t want Oswald to stop, he wants the gangster to flood his inbox with pretty pictures and indecent texts, he wants Oswald to fan the flame he lit inside him and watch it flare up until it consumes him entirely.

 

However, Oswald keeps Jim on his toes. There’s no message for almost seven hours. Jim is reading the case file in his bed, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to work out a kink when his phone beeps. He scrambles to get it, even knocking off a bottle of water he keeps on his nightstand.

 

Jim’s heart starts beating faster when he opens the message. It’s a picture again, and even without seeing the name, Jim would know that it was taken by Oswald, his style all over it. It’s him in a bubble bath, from chest down, his right hand and the foam tastefully covering his cock.

 

The caption is simple, yet it catches Jim’s attention: _‘I ache for you.’_ Jim whimpers. _I do too_ , he thinks and buries his head in his pillow. He’s so fucking screwed. He could just put on some shoes and drive to Oswald, surprise him and gain an upper hand. Maybe just barge into his room and kiss him deeply, then leave, as if his visit had never happened. To leave Oswald just as wanting as he leaves Jim with each photograph.

 

As tempting as that idea is, Jim knows his plan would simply backfire on him. He recalls their evening together; it was as if they had been doused in gasoline, one strike of a match was all it took before they exploded, lust burning in both of them. Jim knows the second he's alone with the gangster again, those flames would devour him, scorching away any self-control Jim had left.

 

The case file's long forgotten, tossed onto the nightstand as Jim eagerly waits for another picture, stretched out on his bed, cell phone in his hand. One more revealing the last. But the gangster holds out on him. A whole ten minutes go by, complete silence, no buzzing, ringing, or pinging from his cell phone. Nothing.

 

Jim wonders if maybe Cobblepot's done for the night, whether he just simply wanted to tease Jim before going to bed. Every night varies, but most evenings Oswald floods his phone with images.

 

Of course, Jim saves every single one.

 

He taps on the screen of his phone, pulling up the image once more of Oswald in the bathtub. There are too many bubbles to properly make out anything other than the obvious curling of Oswald's fist. His fingertips breaking the water's surface. There was no mistaking what the gangster was doing.

 

He scrolls through the images he has received, stopping on an early one Oswald sent. It's a stark contrast to the picture of him in the bathtub. He's fully dressed. Expensive clothes clinging to his sharp figure. Jim's eyes are drawn, however, to the front of his trousers, to his visible erection. Jim remembers the naughty text message Oswald sent along with the picture. _"Look at how hard I am just from thinking about you, James."_

 

Jim continues, lingering on the next image of Oswald's bare chest. His face is cut off, but the focus of the picture is the placement of his hands, fingers just skirting beneath the waistband of his boxers. He's hard. An outline of his cock pressing against the soft fabric that leaves little to Jim's imagination. Jim's mouth is suddenly dry. He tries swiping his tongue over his lips, wetting them, but the fire in him starts building, flames licking the back of his throat, drying it out. One piece of cloth blocking the view of Oswald's cock, but Jim doesn't need to see, he remembers how thick and heavy it felt in his own hand.

 

His phone buzzes, the vibrations startle Jim, almost causing him to drop it onto his face. All the air gets sucked out right from the room once Jim taps the message open and sees what Oswald has sent him.

 

It's a video.

 

The screen remains dark, but Jim can hear the noises. Oswald's soft pants fill his room as if the gangster's lying right beside him. Jim closes his eyes, pretends he can feel the mattress start to dip as Oswald crawls, joining him on the bed.

 

" _Oh, Jim_..." Oswald’s hushed tone snaps Jim's eyes open. A shiver runs through him, hearing Oswald calling his name. His memory has done a poor job recreating that raspy quality of Oswald's voice. It's nothing compared to hearing the real thing.

 

Jim's hands shake as he continues watching the darkened screen. There's a sliver of moonlight coming through Oswald's window that hits the gangster's face, enough where Jim could see his pale skin. Oswald's eyes are closed. His hair bleeds into the dark, but his porcelain skin shines underneath the moonlight. His hair is messy, recently washed and untouched by any product, curls tumbling onto his forehead.

 

Jim's mesmerized.

 

Oswald's head is tossed back, neck arching as the slick sounds grow louder.

 

" _Oh fuck! Oh, James, fuck_!" Expletives slip from the gangster's lips.

 

Oswald's face disappears from the screen, shadows covering like a blanket, hiding him and the screen darkens completely once more, but the sounds grow more frantic.

 

The rhythmic squeaks of the mattress. Oswald's harsh, fast breathing, the wet sounds of Oswald jerking his cock. Jim could see him clearly in his mind. Soles of the feet planted firmly against the mattress as his pale, thin hips lift off the bed, snapping forward into his tight fist.

 

Jim rolls over, quickly increasing the volume before placing the phone next to his ear, before mirroring Oswald's assumed position. His fingernails scratch as he trails his hand down his chest. He stops at the waistband, merely palming at his hard erection.

 

" _Oh, Jim! Fuck!... I'm com_ -," A loud guttural noise cuts off his words.

 

Jim listens as Oswald comes down from his orgasm, slowly regaining his breath, but delayed squeaks from his mattress continue, his hips still bucking forward. The frenetic pace is gone, though, instead replaced by lazy, deliberate thrusts.

 

He swallows thickly as the noises completely fade away and Jim knows the video ended. His hand remains on his erection, but he doesn’t move it, forces himself to stay calm and think this over. Jim suddenly starts laughing, because this whole situation is so ridiculous ‒ here he is, an adult man wanting another adult man, who equally desires Jim. Why has he been trying to pretend that he isn’t attracted to Oswald when even thinking about him transforms his blood into liquid fire, spreading lust into his every cell?

 

Of course, Jim is aware that it is because of their positions: Oswald is the fucking mobster king of Gotham while Jim is a detective who’s vowed to clean the city up. Of course, Oswald is also the mayor and has had the same objective as Jim, so really, the only obstacle between them is Jim’s pride. Jim sighs; he’s known all along that he wouldn’t resist. Tonight’s the night then.

 

Jim has no experience in sending sexy pics and he definitely doesn’t have Oswald’s talent, but he’s even worse with words, so he thinks it would be better to reply with a picture. He doesn’t think a selfie would convey his state of mind at the moment, so Jim tries taking pictures of his bare chest and even of the lower parts, of the erection straining against his thin pajama bottoms.

 

After selecting the best pic, one that shows both of his assets, Jim sends it, biting his lip as he waits for a reply. He allows himself one tug of his cock through the pajama, closing his eyes and hoping that Oswald will reply favorably. He feels like he cannot come until he has Oswald’s approval. A reply from him would be like a blessing, a permission to let go of all his inhibitions and chase his pleasure.

 

The reply arrives in ten seconds, and very characteristically of Oswald, it is tongue-in-cheek, teasing Jim about his lack of response before, _‘Oh, so you’re talking to me now, James.’_ Jim rolls his eyes; even though he can’t see the gangster, he can feel his smirk and tells him to cut it out. Jim sits up, leans against his headboard as he’s waiting for the reply. He feels fifteen again.

 

_‘Make me’_ , says the message, and attached to it there is a picture of Oswald, giving Jim his most mischievous smile, eyes sparkling. Jim is about to type a reply when a second pic lands in his inbox. Jim blushes when he taps on the image, passing a hand over his mouth. Oswald took a picture of his abdomen after he came, white drops of come shining against his skin.

 

Jim’s cock twitches in his pajama pants and he wraps his hand around it almost painfully; he wants to come so badly, he feels like his skin is glowing with heat. Just then, Oswald follows up his pictures with a text, _‘Your turn.’_ and an eggplant and waterdrops emoji. Eggplant water? Eggplant drops? Does Oswald want Jim to water an eggplant? He momentarily forgets about his need and shoots Oswald a quick message, demanding clarifications.

 

Not surprisingly, Oswald teases Jim again. Apparently, it is a thing young people do, some kind of coded message. Of course, the eggplant stands for the phallus. Jim can see it, even if he thinks it is a bit silly, but he supposes it is a useful tool if one doesn’t want to be too explicit.

 

 

 

However, it is the second part of the message that interests him ‒ Oswald is asking Jim to come for him and the detective takes off his underwear in record time, letting out a content sigh as he wraps his fingers around his dick. Before he gives himself completely to pleasure ‒ even though he knows he won’t last long ‒ he reminds himself that he should also take a picture for Oswald, not only as proof of his obedience, but also as a way to reward Oswald for his patience.

 

Naturally, Jim’s mind is filled with the pictures Oswald sent him: his lovely face and gorgeous eyes, rosy lips, elegant fingers, pale chest and his erect cock, all making Jim moan. He’s been only getting small parts of this man, like a carefully measured dose for every day, as if having Oswald at once would be too overwhelming.

 

Jim is tugging his cock ever faster and he wishes Oswald was there, so that he could see just what a mess he is, that he can barely last a couple of minutes because of him. Jim can’t help it, he feels his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach and he grabs his phone, to make sure that he won’t miss the moment. Jim comes hard on his stomach, two strings of come hitting his hot skin, and he’s moaning Oswald’s name, his head thudding against the headboard.

 

Just as he’s riding out his orgasm, Jim accesses his phone’s camera and takes a few close ups as he’s milking the last drops of come from the tip of his cock, his thumb and index finger covered in the sticky substance. Jim has to chuckle at how ridiculous this whole thing is; he’d prefer it if Oswald was there to see it live, but he supposes that sending pictures like this has its own appeal, a new way to tease one’s lover.

 

_Lover?_ he thinks and chides himself for his post-orgasmic, overconfident thought. Jim decides to just go with the flow and accept everything as it is. No expectations.

 

He glances at the time and smirks, Oswald must be sitting on pins and needles. It’s time to show him the result of their sexting.

 

Emboldened, Jim sends the picture with the text ' _good enough_?' attaching the emojis Oswald used earlier.

 

Jim's hand on his member slows, lazily stroking his twitching, spent cock as he waits anxiously for Oswald's response.

 

His breath is stuck in his throat like the fire has burnt his lungs, incapable of drawing a full breath. Several minutes pass and regret punches Jim in the gut. He wonders if maybe his picture took things too far.

 

But all doubts vanish when his phone goes off once more, alerting him to a new message. Oswald's reply telling him how good he looks only fuels the heat more, still fanning the flames licking beneath his skin. ' _Wish I was there with you. The things I would do_.'

 

_Me too_ , Jim thinks.

 

Muscles along his stomach tighten at that thought. He types out a quick demand, asking for Oswald to elaborate.

 

His mind whirls to a halt when Oswald's texts come through. Jim has to reread them several times. ' _Wish I could taste you again_.' Jim groans, squeezing his eyes shut as the image of Oswald’s tongue licking his cock like some lollipop pops into his head. Jim's hand speeds up on his cock.

 

If Jim could come again, he would just from Oswald's words alone. He wants to push his cock into Oswald's mouth again, listen to Oswald moan around his girth.

 

He cries out as a small spurt of come drizzles out through the slit. His touch becomes unbearable, far too overstimulated to continue his strokes.

 

Jim finally releases his cock from his strong grip, breathing heavily as he lies there for a moment to collect himself. He tries to string coherent thoughts together, but his brain's too fried from his orgasm.

 

He can only manage to type out a short response. His body is exhausted, but he cleans himself up, slipping into the bathroom to retrieve a washcloth, leaving his phone behind on his bed.

 

When he returns, he notices his phone's screen lights up with a notification that Oswald sent him another message, wishing him goodnight.

 

There's an emoji with his text. A smiley face blowing a kiss. His heart flutters as his thoughts lie with the mayor. Jim could see Oswald clearly in his mind, lying in bed, a sleepy, pleased grin curving his lips.

 

Jim is defenseless when it comes to the gangster. Nothing could smother the fire Oswald lit in him, still smoldering in the shadows, flames casting a glow in the dark. Oswald is aware of this too.

 

Jim shoots a quick text back, ' _night_.'

  
  

 

There is nothing left to say. Words escaping both of them as they are still reeling from tonight's events. Strings of arousal have tightened around them, branding their bodies until they were overcome with lust.

 

Jim exhales, turning his phone off after glancing at Oswald's message one last time. Jim's convinced Oswald will pierce through his subconscious, that he's standing just beyond the veil of consciousness, waiting for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, million thanks to druxykexy for their fabulous beta skills!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, let us know what you think. :)

The next morning, Jim is getting ready for work, and for the first time in months he’s actually in a good mood, all thanks to Oswald. While putting on his suit, he thinks of last night’s shenanigans and he smiles. He reaches for his phone, wondering whether he should send a message. Would it seem too desperate?

 

Still debating whether he should do it, Jim notices the name at the top of the screen. Peter Humboldt. He shakes his head, this had to be one of his most ridiculous ideas ever. Hiding things even from himself, so typical. Jim clicks on it to edit the name. What should he save it as? Oswald would be too familiar in case someone accidentally sees it, so Jim decides on Cobblepot. That is rather neutral and no one would suspect anything.

 

Before he could worry too much, Jim decides to send a quick text, wishing Oswald good morning. That is safe territory, even though it makes the detective very nervous. What if Oswald only wants a fuck buddy? Or someone to have fun with through texts?

 

Luckily, it seems that Oswald is very satisfied with his action, as he sends Jim a picture of him fully dressed, though his hair is still fluffy, as it hasn’t been styled yet. He’s blowing a kiss to Jim, with a rather flirtatious expression.

 

Jim feels his heart beating faster, suddenly relieved. So it’s not just sexting. He wishes more than anything that he would be greeted with a kiss from those lovely lips every morning. He still remembers their softness and taste, the passion with which Oswald pressed against his lips, how his tongue teased Jim’s.

 

_Careful, you’re going to distract me getting ready for work_ , Jim types, quickly going to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He forbids his mind to meander to thoughts of Oswald’s lips and where they’ve been on Jim’s body. When he returns to his room, Jim finds a text from Oswald pretending to be innocent, as if he hasn’t teased the detective with erotic pictures for days.

 

Jim stares at the screen, wondering whether he should be brave. So far, everything he tried had unexpectedly fantastic results, so he decides to ask whether he could call Oswald later.

 

 

 

Jim puts his wallet and keys in his pocket, hands tightly clutching his phone. Oswald’s enthusiastic reply arrives shortly and Jim smiles, heart swelling in his chest. A ping alerts Jim to a new text and the detective has to look away, he’s blushing so much. Oswald is looking forward to hearing his voice. Jim doesn’t think anyone has ever said that to him.

 

A spark comes to life within Jim, one that promises to keep his flame burning forever.

 

* * *

 

 

After several days, Jim settles into a new routine ‒ one centered on Oswald. His mornings always start with Jim checking for new messages or sending one to the mayor, in the hopes of making Oswald smile. It practically becomes a ritual for them to text each other as they are getting ready for work, the short period of time when they don’t have to put on the mask expected of them.

 

The texts are rarer during the day and they are very tame too, compared to Oswald’s early messages. Just friends talking to each other, sharing interesting things they saw or that happened to them. Sometimes they are so busy that they don’t even have time to text, although they try to warn each other if they are facing a tough day, so that the other won’t expect messages.

 

The evenings, however, are usually dedicated to each other, unless Jim is working on a case or Oswald has an official dinner. In fact, Jim is looking forward to just getting home and texting or calling Oswald instead of moping in front of the TV.

 

Strangely, however, Jim hasn’t met with the mayor ever since their first meeting and his chest feels hollow, despite their much improved relationship. It’s as if he’s just looking at a picture or a video of a fire; he can see the flame, maybe even hear the roaring of the flames, but he cannot feel its warmth, cannot feel the burn spread in his veins.

 

Unknown to both men, however, their first meeting comes sooner than expected.

 

Jim exhales, breathing out a sigh of relief once he enters the precinct, shutting the doors on winter's coldness and embracing the wave of warmth that hits him.

 

He rubs his hands together as he strides towards his desk, hoping that friction will thaw the newly-formed ice cubes he has for fists. Ever since Jim gave his gloves to Oswald, his fingers are at risk of getting frostbitten since they are exposed. Despite his fingers turning shades of blue while he's out chasing down leads for cases, Jim can't find it in himself to regret his decision. He remembers the shape of Oswald's hands enclosed in the leather and Jim feels warm enough to forget the cold.

 

He sheds his layers once he reaches his desk, tossing his jacket over the back of his chair and unwrapping the scarf around his neck. His fingers fumble, pulling the scarf tighter around his throat when he realizes just who's coming downstairs following a grumbling Harvey Bullock.

 

Jim lets out a strangled noise, face quickly turning red as he attempts to undo the choking garment with nimble fingers. Jim ducks down into his seat, burying his face behind one of the case files sitting on his desk. He prays that none of the passing officers has noticed his conspicuous reaction at seeing Oswald Cobblepot.

 

He's in a room filled with detectives, trained to be exceptionally observant and spot the smallest clues and details. Jim's afraid he has a neon sign flashing above his head, reading the words: ‘I'm having a secret, developing affair with Gotham's mayor and criminal kingpin, Oswald Cobblepot.’

 

Jim waits for the mayor and Harvey to pass before he dares a peek, slowly lowering the case file just halfway below his eyes.

 

Oswald's laughing smugly, no doubt at Harvey's expense by the glowering expression looming on Harvey's face. They're too far away now to overhear what they could be saying, but Jim could already figure along the lines of Oswald's response. Incredibly sharp wit, enough to pierce through someone's pride.

 

Before, Jim hated how Oswald would make him laugh, how he would always have to stifle a chuckle ‒ now he hides his smile behind a manila folder.

 

Jim glances around making sure no one is paying any attention to him before he continues his gawking. He grows warmer as his gaze sweeps over the mobster, eyes trailing down the polished silver suit hugging Oswald's frame. The material shimmers under the lights of the precinct, drawing everyone's eye. No one could possibly fault Jim for staring.

 

Oswald looks utterly breathtaking.

 

The gangster has always managed to stand out in a crowd, having such a distinctive and bold appearance, it‘s hard to lose Oswald in a sea of faces. It’s different now, though. Jim knows what lies beneath all those layers: he felt the pale, smooth skin underneath, witnessed how Oswald’s body trembled under his touch.

 

Time slows and the file Jim's clutching slips from his grip. He can't take his eyes off Oswald. Everyone else seems to blur, colors dissipating from the room, leaving everyone but Oswald in shades of black and white. The noisy precinct fades into the background, a muffled hum low in Jim's ears.

 

Panic seizes him, striking painfully in his chest as he notices Oswald turning to leave, and suddenly, Jim doesn't want to waste this encounter by being silent. Luckily, Harvey stops Oswald from leaving, giving Jim enough time to pull out his phone.

 

Jim doesn't even give himself time to second guess his decision or overthink it. He simply types out a quick message: ' _Hi, didn't know you'd be here at the precinct today...You look good_.'

 

He only reads the text once before sending it. Jim rotates in his chair, picking back up the file on his desk, attempting to appear busy and nonchalant, but he's too curious for his own good. Desperate to know Oswald's reaction, Jim glances over at the gangster.

 

Jim watches as Oswald's hands float to his double-breasted blazer, slipping into a pocket before pulling out his phone. Jim has to chuckle to himself as Oswald completely ignores Harvey. Oswald's lips moving as he reads Jim's text.

 

A slow smile touches Oswald's mouth and Jim's suddenly dizzy when Oswald swivels his head, looking around the precinct, searching for something.

 

His green eyes land on Jim. Sparkling emerald gems shining brightly in a room of dullness. Heat floods Jim's face as Oswald sends him a quick wink before he turns, limping out of the precinct.

 

Jim stares after his retreating figure. He doesn't hear Harvey approaching.

 

"I swear ever since Penguin became mayor, he's a bigger pain in my ass than before." Harvey thankfully doesn't spare Jim a glance as he storms into his office, doors slamming shut behind him.

 

Jim sighs, leaning back into his seat as he peers over at the clock on his desk, counting down the hours till his shift's over and he can go home and call Oswald.

 

* * *

 

 

Oswald can’t decide which part of the day is his favorite. He likes mornings because waking up to a text from Jim is the best way to start his day. The detective initiated it, so it holds a special place in his heart. Or maybe noon is his favorite when he and Jim have the most random conversations during lunch, as if they had been friends for years. But then perhaps evenings are the best, just like now when Oswald has barely gotten home from work and he sees Jim’s name pop up on his screen, asking if he’s free. Definitely evenings, he thinks, since they can be themselves and talk openly in the safety of their homes, without being afraid of getting caught.

 

Oswald sheds his silver suit jacket and takes off his shoes before lying down on his bed and calling Jim. He moans at the feeling of finally being able to lie down, his back and legs sore after a hard day of work.

 

“Hello, Jim,” he says when the phone clicks, smiling with closed eyes.

 

“Oswald,” Jim answers, voice raspy, making Oswald shiver. “Finally.”

 

“Impatient, aren’t we? I had a last minute meeting with some councilors. Couldn’t wait to get out to talk to you,” Oswald says, biting his lip.

 

“Oh yeah?” Jim sounds breathless, but Oswald doesn’t attribute anything to it. “Are you alone?”

 

That, however, gets his attention and Oswald’s eyes pop open. “Yes, in my bedroom. Are you?”

 

“Yes. You, uh, you surprised me today. You looked so _fucking_ good.” Besides panting, Jim also moans at the end and Oswald feels something stir inside him, as if the sound has awakened a spark in him, lit up his synapses with the memory of Jim panting in his ear.

 

“Jim… Are you, are you touching yourself?” Oswald asks quietly, gripping his phone tighter.

 

“Maybe,” Jim laughs. “I just need to-”

 

Oswald puts Jim on speakerphone, so he can take off his tie and undo the first two buttons on his shirt, already feeling hot under the collar. “Tell me, James, what do you want to do?”

 

“I, fuck, I can’t say it,” Jim grumbles, making a frustrated sound just as Oswald picks up the phone again and puts it to his ear.

 

“Come on, we’re far beyond shyness now, Jim. You know you can tell me anything.”

 

“For the past weeks I’ve been trying to, to touch myself _there_ ,” Jim whispers and Oswald’s eyes become wide as he sits up. “But it’s not, it doesn’t work, I can’t-”

 

“Jim, old friend,” Oswald interrupts Jim before he gets himself into a frenzy, feeling his dick twitch as he imagines Jim lying in his bed, trying to fuck himself with his fingers. “Slow down a bit.”

 

“Guide me, Oswald. Please,” Jim begs, voice steadier, but there’s a need in it that runs through Oswald, scorching his whole body.  

 

As if someone pours gasoline on him, soaking him straight through his bones. Sinking into his pores. Jim's begs strike the match, setting his brain on fire. Oswald leans back against his pillows, tongue swiping at his suddenly dry lips. How could he deny such a request when Jim was pleading so beautifully? He stifles a groan, palming himself through his trousers only once. He doesn't want to spill his load before Jim comes.

 

"I will," Oswald assures him and he listens as Jim exhales shakily as if he has been holding his breath, waiting for Oswald's answer, afraid Oswald could refuse him.

 

Jim should know by now that Oswald's incapable of denying Jim anything he asks for.

 

"But first, I need to know, do you have any lube with you?"

 

There's a long pause on the other end of the phone. Oswald almost thinks that Jim hung up, but he’s certain that Jim's still there, he can hear Jim's soft breathing.

 

"I… Yes. I do. I bought some after..." Jim doesn't finish his sentence and he doesn't need to. Oswald's stomach clenches at the thought of Jim rushing out to purchase a container of lube after their first encounter.

 

"I need you to promise me you'll only come when I tell you to." Oswald wants Jim begging for release by the time they're done.

 

Oswald doesn't have to wait long. Jim's answer comes quickly.

 

"Fuck." Jim clears his throat and Oswald has to wonder if Jim's blushing. "I-I mean… I promise."

 

"Good boy." Oswald hears Jim's breath hitch. God, Jim was so responsive. He can only wonder how noisy the detective would be if he actually was there, touching him. Oswald needs to hear more, listen to Jim's moans grow louder, slowly unraveling at the seams, becoming more and more desperate.

 

"Make yourself comfortable, I need you to relax." Oswald gives Jim a second to get settled before he continues. "Now spread your legs, will you do that for me?"

 

Jim's breathing quickens. "Yes, anything for you, Oswald."

 

Oswald swallows thickly. He doesn't think Jim meant to say that out loud. But intentional or not, the words set his heart racing. His voice drops to a whisper. "You're so good for me, aren't you, James?"

 

He didn't expect the detective to be this obedient. Jim rebels any chance he gets, he’s the most stubborn man he's ever met. Never backing down, pushing the buttons of every crime boss and corrupted official. Yet, here he is, hanging onto the King of Gotham's every command.

 

"Touch yourself." Oswald pictures Jim in his bed, hand inching between his spread legs. Oswald pulls his already erect cock out of his boxers, not bothering to push down his pants.

 

Oswald instructs, "Rub around it with your fingertip, slowly in circles."

 

Jim sighs. "It doesn't feel like you."

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, biting his lower lip at Jim's words. "I know, baby. I know, but I'm going to make you feel so good. Just be patient."

 

Oswald knows it's going to be awhile before they can continue. So he aims to distract the detective, get him to completely relax before they move to the next step.

 

"Tell me what you're thinking about?"

 

"You."

 

"Yeah?" Oswald smiles at that. "Be more specific," he urges.

 

"Can't stop thinking about you in that suit. You looked so fucking good, Oswald."

 

"Mhmm, I'm still wearing it, you know. I'm touching myself right now, thinking about what you must look like, all spread out for me, rubbing at your pucker."

 

"Fuck." Jim's panting now.

 

"Add a bit more pressure now," Oswald orders. "How does it feel?"

 

"M-Much better. Wish you were here."

 

"I wish I was there too, so I could sink my fingers inside you, watch you squirm, fucking yourself on my fingers. Don't think I'd stop there, though. Think I'd use my tongue to lick at you, make sure you're ready for me."

 

"Fuck, Oswald..."

 

"You like that idea, James?" Oswald strokes his cock. "Want me to kiss you there?"

 

Jim moans at the thought.

 

"Get the lube. Coat your fingers."

 

Oswald pauses, listening as the bed squeaks, a click of a lid being removed from the container. Once he’s sure Jim has covered his fingers good, he continues. "Slowly push inside."

 

He hears Jim inhale sharply. "Baby, I need you to keep breathing. Exhale. You're doing so well for me. Wrap your other hand around your cock." It will distract Jim from the slight pain, allowing him some time to adjust to the intrusion.

 

"Oh..." Oswald listens to the sounds of rustling sheets grow louder. No doubt Jim's testing the waters, moving his hips as his finger slides in and out of himself.

 

"Do you think you can take another finger?"

 

The detective lets out a loud moan. "I think I can."

 

"How do you feel?"

 

"Full," Jim's murmurs, voice hoarse. Oswald wants to come right there when he hears the slick wet noises as Jim starts fucking himself in earnest on his digits. He's writhing now.

 

"I want to feel you, Oswald."

 

"Tell me what you want."

 

Jim whimpers. "I… I want you to fuck me."

 

"You want me to fuck you?" Oswald groans, tugging at his member.

 

"Yes, please, fuck me. I want to feel your cock."

 

Oswald swipes his thumb over his leaking head, collecting precome, making his dick slick. "I bet you would take my cock so good, wouldn't you?"

 

“Y-yes,” Jim gasps, his breathing harsh. “All of it, I’d take all of it.”

 

Oswald hums and only lets himself imagine it for a second, the way he would pound into Jim, making sure that the detective would let out the most beautiful sounds for him. It’s time to make him howl.

 

“You’re doing so well, Jim. Listen to me, this will make you feel amazing. Curl your fingers and try to find your prostate. It’s a small nub.”

 

“Oh,” Jim sighs and Oswald listens to his panting, his own fingers straying to his balls and massaging them, wishing it would be Jim’s hands on him.

 

“Oswald, I can’t find it.”

 

“Patience, James. It’s not that far in, three-four inches. Make circling motions slowly. There’s no hurry, alright?”

 

Jim swallows loudly and for a minute or so, Oswald is just reassuring him, finally telling him to try a different angle. “Move your hand a bit to the left, it might help.”

 

“Oh, _oooh_.” Oswald smiles at the pleased sounds coming through the line and he fucks into his fist, as Jim’s pleasure-ridden face floats into his mind. Oswald has seen it in his office as he was kneeling in front of Jim, ecstasy and passion transforming his expression.

 

“Keep massaging, Jim. Imagine that’s me, hitting your prostate with my dick with each thrust until you cannot see and cannot hear anything. The hand on your cock is my hand, jerking you in time with my thrusts,” Oswald directs Jim, writhing on his sheets as he feels pleasure tingling throughout his body, as if it were electric current.

 

“Fuck,” Jim moans. “I’ve never known it could feel this good.”

 

Oswald smirks; he figured it out much sooner than the detective, but he could still remember the first time he dared to slip a digit inside himself, it felt like he was doing something illicit that wasn’t supposed to produce such pleasure.

 

The broken sounds Jim makes travel as vibrations down Oswald’s spine and his hips thrust into the air, in search of some kind of friction. But he cannot yet think of his own pleasure ‒ he needs to guide Jim there first, he needs to hear his detective let go and come.

 

“Oswald, I’m so close,” Jim’s voice comes muffled as he probably managed to shove his phone aside with all the movement.

 

“Remember that you promised you’d only come when I tell you to.”

 

Jim’s answer is a pained whine, but he doesn’t contradict Oswald. The mayor smiles and he bites his lip as he listens to the various sounds: the rustling of the sheets, the slick and slapping sounds, Jim’s breathy moans and the bed squeaking, all combining into a beautiful symphony of pleasure, soon to reach its crescendo.

 

“You’re my good boy, James, you’ve been so obedient, listened to every word. For that, you deserve the best. Speed up those movements, Jim.”

 

“Oh god.”

 

“Can you feel my cock ramming into your ass? And my fingers wrapped around your cock?”

 

“Yes, Oswald, I can’t anymore, please-”

 

A pleased smile spreads on Oswald’s face as he grips the base of his cock, so that he won’t come yet.

 

“Hmm, what was that, Jim?”

 

“Please, I need to come, Oswald.”

 

He lets Jim suffer for a moment longer, then finally gives his permission. “Come, baby. Come for me.”

 

“Oswald! Fuck!”

 

It only takes a few seconds and Jim is crying out, pleasure washing over him so completely that it makes Oswald clutch at his duvet and he can’t take it anymore, he’s tugging his cock again, the image of a sweat-soaked Jim in the throes of pleasure pushing him ever closer.  

 

“Oswald?” Jim rasps into the phone, almost timidly.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Thank you,” Jim breathes into the line, sending shivers down Oswald’s spine.

 

“Anytime, old friend,” Oswald laughs. “Would you do me a favor? Keep talking.”

 

“Are you…?” Jim can’t even finish his question and Oswald just knows that Jim is blushing.

 

“Oh yes. You don’t mind, do you?” Oswald asks, a bit nervous.

 

“Of course not, just, I’m not so good at talking, not like you,” Jim admits. “But I meant everything. I want you to fuck me.”

 

“That’s it, keep it up, Jim,” Oswald commands, pleasure building under his navel.

 

“I saved all the pictures you sent me.”

 

Oswald moans, his hand speeding up. “Did you touch yourself when looking at them?”

 

“Yes, every time. I once had to lock myself in the bathroom at the GCPD.”

 

“ _Jim_ ,” Oswald almost laughs, but he’s too far gone, he’s on the brink of orgasming.

 

“That text you sent me… About you fucking me over my desk,” Jim starts, voice shaky, “that’s all I can think of.”

 

“Oh really?” Oswald swallows, his fingernails digging into his palm as he listens to Jim’s fantasy, willing his body to resist a bit more.

 

“Just you knocking every file off the table and pushing me down, then you’d take me,” Jim’s breath hitches and Oswald knows he’ll be gone in seconds, “and come inside me.”

 

“Fuck, Jim,” Oswald manages to get out before his orgasm sweeps through him like a wildfire, burning any kind of coherent thought from his mind as he comes over his hand and stomach, shuddering on his satin sheets.

 

After getting his breath back, Oswald laughs into the phone. “Not good at talking, huh? You’re a liar, James.”

 

“Well, I’ve never done it before,” Jim says and Oswald’s eyes widen.

 

“Really? Never?”

 

“Why, have you?”

 

“No, but you had a few girlfriends, I supposed you were more experienced.”

 

Jim coughs. “No, nothing as exciting...”

 

_As this_. Jim doesn't even have to finish his sentence, Oswald hears the unspoken words.

 

He breathes softly, still not having fully caught his breath since his orgasm. While his stomach is doing somersaults, he settles on teasing the detective just a bit. "I'm shocked, James. I figured a Casanova like yourself would be used to this kind of excitement."

 

"Casanova? Is that how you see me, Oswald?" A raspy chuckle floats through the speaker.

 

Oswald grins. "Maybe."

 

Jim laughs again, it sounds like a melody to Oswald's ears. Even though he's currently speaking with the detective, a sudden longing is there burning in Oswald, a stabbing ache in his chest. Oswald misses Jim. He wants to roll over in bed, to be greeted by Jim's smile. He wishes he could be there, to worship Jim, his body, and then afterward, kiss the flushed, sweat-slicked skin. Whispering praise for the detective with every kiss.

 

"I've… I've never felt like this before." Jim's laughter fades, turning serious. "There has never been anyone else… No one who has made me feel like this."

 

Oswald swallows, listening to Jim's confession. He knows Jim isn't strictly referring to their recent dalliance. They've been dancing around each other for years. Oswald has carried a torch for Jim for as long as he can remember. Their first meeting in that dirty alley had lit the candle and it still burned even years later, never once dimming in strength.

 

He knows. Oswald has never met anyone who made him feel remotely similar to the way he felt around Jim.

 

No one could even come close.

 

"Me too," Oswald whispers.

 

Comfortable silence falls, neither one speaking, only soft breathing coming through the speaker. It's then that Oswald realizes the sticky mess drying on his shirt.

 

Oswald grimaces, pulling at the shirt. A change of clothes is definitely in order yet he hesitates, not wanting to depart with the detective just yet.

 

"Jim, I-I need to change quickly. Will you wait for me just for a moment?"

 

"Yes." Jim's answer comes out rushed and Oswald wonders if the feeling's mutual. Whether the detective is in no hurry to end this conversation either.

 

Oswald smiles at the phone before quickly hopping out of bed. His limbs protest the fast pace, heavy feeling from the orgasm, but Oswald makes haste, disposing of his soiled shirt in the laundry, hoping he'll be able to salvage it. Despite the slim outcome of that, there are no feelings of regret present.

 

This evening has been an unforgettable one. Oswald would ruin a thousand shirts for another night like this with James.

 

He trades his trousers for pajamas, not even bothering to button up his silk pajama shirt. Oswald grabs the phone, breathing out, "Hi."

 

"Hi," Jim shyly greets.

 

Oswald’s heart flutters. Jim stayed on the line. Jim waited for him.

 

Oswald quickly taps on the screen of his cell phone, turning it on speaker and Jim's light breathing fills the room. A comforting sound. Oswald almost forgets that the detective isn't there with him when he closes his eyes.

 

He keeps his eyes shut, bed squeaking as he rolls over onto his stomach, hugging his pillow tight, pretending it's Jim he's holding.

 

Oswald craves it, to lay his eyes on Jim, to lightly stroke his skin with his fingertips, watch as his chest slowly climbs and falls. Oswald wants to place his ear on Jim's chest, listen to his heart beating.

 

"Oswald?" Jim's tired voice breaks through Oswald's thoughts, pulling him back.

 

"Mhmm?" Oswald hums, a bit muffled by the pillow against his face.

 

"I really want to kiss you right now."

 

Oswald melts. His heart stuttering in rhythm at hearing Jim's words. He traces his lips with his index finger, remember the pressure of Jim's mouth on his that evening in his office.

 

He hates the fact that they're alone, but not together. That they can't reach out and feel the heat of each other's flesh. He wants Jim to be there with him, desires his soft kisses and touches. To entwine their hands and fall asleep together.

 

"That's good to know." Oswald swallows, ignoring his racing pulse, attempting to remain casual as if Jim's words didn't have his stomach flooded with butterflies. Their wings aflame, with every flutter, heating his insides. "Because I would very much like for you to kiss me."

 

Oswald can hear the smile in Jim's voice. "I'll keep that in mind."

 

It sounds like a promise. An awaiting kiss lies in Oswald's future.

 

The conversation dwindles once more, fading back into comfortable silence. Oswald doesn't even realize he has started to hum until Jim points it out.

 

"You keep humming and I'm gonna fall asleep-" Jim's accusation loses merit as he breaks off mid-sentence yawning.

 

"Sounds to me you're already falling asleep."

 

Jim chuckles. "And I will for sure if you keep humming."

 

"I haven't even realized I was doing it, my apologies, Jim." He apologizes, but it doesn't sound too sincere.

 

"I… I actually don't mind it." Jim clears his throat. "I like listening to you, I just don't want to fall asleep just yet."

 

_Oh_.

 

They were delaying the inevitable, saying goodbyes, because drowsiness was settling in their bones, sleep summoning them. Their eyelids heavy, Oswald has to blink several times, battling the effects of sleep.

 

Once they determine they are too exhausted to continue talking, they know what happens next and neither one wants to part and hang up.

 

"I'll be here. Go to sleep, Jim." Oswald starts humming again, softly.

 

"Goodnight, Oswald."

 

He hums in acknowledgment, not wanting to interrupt his flow. It's not long after when Oswald hears Jim's breathing evening out, growing more steady. Consistent.

 

Oswald finds comfort in each draw of breath, he reaches out, sliding the phone across his soft pillow, closer to his ear.

 

His exhales start slowing as his eyes grow even heavier, his breathing synchronizing with Jim's. Their breaths blend together, mingling as if they're in the same room, sharing the same air.

 

Oswald falls asleep quickly.

 

The next morning, Oswald is woken by a ping coming from his phone. He makes a disgruntled noise into his pillow as he feels about for the phone, swearing to punish whoever dared to disturb him before his alarm. He scowls at the bright screen until he realizes that it’s a text from Jim. He smiles softly, suddenly all the memories from last night rushing to the front of his mind.

 

Jim sent his customary morning greeting, but he also attached a picture to it, one that instantly makes Oswald sit up. It’s a picture of Jim still in bed, his hair disheveled and messy as if he’s just woken up, half of his face buried in a pillow. Oswald swallows as he admires the detective’s tan back, the slope of his spine and the ‒ barely visible ‒ top of his ass, the blanket covering the rest.

 

Oswald closes his eyes, imagines what it would be like to pepper Jim’s gorgeous back with kisses, waking him up in the most gentle way possible. He doesn’t want to fall back asleep, though, so he decides to text back. He knows his reply is cheesy, but he cannot hold back: _‘Please arrest yourself. You're illegally hot.’_

 

Lying down onto his back since he can afford to be lazy for another five minutes, Oswald checks his emails, hoping that Jim will text back. Luckily, the detective doesn’t disappoint and his answer makes Oswald blush to the tip of his ears.

 

_‘Guess I’ll have to arrest you too then.’_

 

Oswald giggles, rubbing his eyes. He can’t believe this is real, that Jim Gordon is sending him good morning texts and also heavily flirting with him. Oswald sometimes has to pinch his arm to convince himself that he’s not dreaming. He wants to stay in bed and fantasize about Jim and their next meeting, but he has to get ready for work.


End file.
